


On Rivalling Friendship

by SnowyWolff



Category: Inazuma Eleven
Genre: Football | Soccer, Friendship, Gen, Pre-Canon, Prompt Fic, Rivalry, world championships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-06-12 10:19:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15337776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnowyWolff/pseuds/SnowyWolff
Summary: Edgar Valtinas has (more or less) been participating in the world championships for four years by the time Japan makes it to Liocott Island. It's this year that he finally faces all the captains he has known for almost just as long.[Little snippets of how Edgar got to meet Teres, Mark, Dylan and Fideo]





	On Rivalling Friendship

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RaspberryDevil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaspberryDevil/gifts).



> **Prompt:** For your open request: Maybe now that the world cup is almost over how about some Inazuma FFI Captain stuff? Maybe the prompt 'first meeting' with your favourite Captain? E.g. the opinion of the other Captains when they meet him for the first time? (Hope this isn't too vague :D)
> 
> I have followed about uh absolutely nothing of the world cup but congrats to France, I guess. Let's have a little Edgar instead tho (and somehow I did the reverse of your prompt so here's his opinion on the block A captains whoops sorry ~~not sorry~~ ). Also I know it's not entirely canonically accurate because I couldn't be bothered to research every little detail, but you know, at this point with Ares happening the validity of canon can be questioned anyway.

_Teres_

Edgar first met Teres four years before Japan made it to the world championships. It had been his first time then, one of the youngest of the team at thirteen years of age, and he hadn't thought a whole lot of making friends with other teams. It would distract from his main purpose: winning that coveted trophy.

The Knights of Queen had only just arrived on Liocott Island. They stood outside the airport, fanning themselves in the sweltering heat as they waited for their van to pick them up.

Edgar wished he had thought ahead. The humidity was plastering the sweat to his skin and he impatiently brushed his bangs from his forehead. His teammates all looked equally uncomfortable and for once Edgar wished for the dreary weather of his home country.

He peered around, hoping that their van would arrive soon. Even their coach looked like he was boiling in his tight suit, but it made Edgar feel a little better to know their track suits left a little more air to breathe.

Catching the eye of some stranger hadn't been his intention and he frowned before looking away. The guy had been with a loud bunch, but Edgar’s brain was a little too fried to recognize their jerseys.

They also appeared to be a social bunch as they meandered over, their coach striking up a conversation with Adams, even if he looked a little miffed about it. Edgar listened in while pretending to be disinterested.

So they were Argentina, he discovered after a bit, and laughing about their discomfort in the heat. Edgar narrowed his eyes. He reached up to brush his hair away once more, but paused as someone approached him.

It was the guy who had caught his eye earlier. Broad, tall and distinctly square. Not exactly someone Edgar would chat with on a good day.

“England, right?” he said, his accent thick. He looked at Edgar much the same as Edgar had looked at him and it made him subconsciously stand a little straighter. He didn't feel like being judged—even if it was a little hypocritical on his part.

“What gave it away?” Edgar said, almost bored. He didn't want to interact with people when he felt his shoes were melted to the tarmac.

“The fact you seem this close to becoming a puddle.” The man squeezed his forefinger and thumb together. There was something teasing in his eyes and Edgar didn't like to be made fun of.

“Well, I'm not,” he snapped. “We have enough puddles in England, thank you very much.”

The man smiled, leaning forward almost conspiratorially. “Teres Tolue.”

“Bless you,” Edgar said absently. It wasn't so much disinterest as the world started to spin a little and Teres seemed to notice. He reached out and grabbed Edgar’s elbow.

Edgar stared at his fingers and for a moment wondered about their intention. He shook them off the next.

“I'm Edgar Valtinas,” he said just as a series of loud beeps alerted them of their van’s arrival. Edgar watched as it stopped and their coach started ushering the team inside. He looked back at Teres, wondering what to say.

Teres smiled again, despite a momentary frown at Edgar’s behaviour as his arm dropped back to his side.

“I look forward to playing you, Edgar,” Teres said. He held out a hand to shake.

Edgar took it after a slight hesitation. “I won't be defeated.”

“We'll see about that.”

***

_Mark (and Dylan)_

The next year after his meeting (and subsequent defeat) with Teres, England did not qualify for the finals on Liocott. It left a bitter taste in his mouth after his team was thoroughly trashed by Hidetoshi Nakata’s Orpheus.

He vowed to return after the mocking video call from Teres (even if Edgar made him promise to win for England’s sake also) and trained until his team had to scrape him off the field.

He learnt Excalibur that year and after two gruesome battles against Germany and Norway, Edgar secured his place on Liocott Island once again.

It was Dylan he met first, in a supermarket no less. He spoke too quickly and seemed to skip half the vowels when he got _really_ excited, but he was friendly and somehow Edgar felt himself fall into conversation with him easily.

One day, Dylan brought a friend.

Edgar had been bored as Teres was the one missing this year due to an injury (Edgar doubted Argentina ever missed a year in the world championships) and had found a secluded field on the border of the English camp. He was currently abusing the goalposts, trying to find a balance in his shooting and accuracy by aiming for them.

“Mornin’, Ed,” Dylan greeted from about a mile away, running to hop over the low fence with a grin.

Edgar shook his head, trapping the ball to give him a look as well. “I told you—”

“Yes, yes. Ed _gar_. I got it, Mr. Valtinas.” Dylan leaned back on his heals, hands in his pockets as his grin never left. He indicated his head to his left though, directing Edgar’s attention to the other person arriving through the actual gate. “That's Mark.”

Mark shot Dylan an exasperated look, stepping forward with his hand outstretched. Edgar took it, mainly because Mark looked a lot more like a serious conversationalist than Dylan (though they once had a very intense discussion about the validity of mustard).

“Mark Kruger,” he said. “Dylan told me you have an awful taste in condiments.”

“Edgar Valtinas.” He scoffed and sent a scowl in Dylan's direction as he added, “It can't be worse than his.”

Mark smiled. “That, it cannot.”

Dylan pursed his lips as he hopped over to them. “Dude, mayo is valid.”

“You keep believing that,” Edgar said.

“Someone’s gotta take the small fry’s side!”

“Yeah, but you don't dip the actual fries in it.” Mark raised an amused eyebrow as Dylan turned on him.

They bickered until Dylan threw up his arms in defeat, muttering something about Edgar and Mark ganging up on him like some sort of fucked up amalgamation of Laurel and Hardy. He stole the ball from Edgar’s feet and compelled to them to settle it like they should at the world championships.

Before Edgar could call him out on his behaviour, Mark caught his elbow, watching Dylan ardently.

“Wait until you hear what he has to say about aliens,” Mark whispered, and Edgar decided he liked him as they both tackled Dylan to the ground.

***

_Fideo_

The next year, it was the Americans who couldn't make it. Mexico stood proudly next to England during the opening ceremony and Edgar ignored Teres’ wink to his right.

The Italians were back too and Edgar tried not to scowl at Hidetoshi as he walked by. The humiliating defeat of two years prior still stung. He caught the eye of another player, though. Bright-eyed, but proud as he returned Edgar’s gaze evenly.

After the ceremony, Edgar decided to have a look around. Now that he didn't have Mark and Dylan to drag him around the island for various forms of entertainment from across the world and Teres was so obsessed with training because he missed the year before, Edgar was once again bored.

He paused at the gates of the Italian camp, but decided that he hadn't had a chance yet to investigate as the Italians had failed to qualify the previous year due to losing a penalty duel with Sweden.

It was honestly a little dull, though perhaps it was because he could not make asinine comments toward Mark while Dylan goofed around and almost fell into a fountain like he had in the Greek camp.

He sat on a bench, watching people mill about, wondering if he should indulge a little and take a picture. He was sure Dylan would appreciate it, albeit be a little jealous, but he paused when someone sat next to him.

It was the Italian player from the opening ceremony, dressed in his jersey. His blue eyes watched him keenly.

“Hi,” he said. “Edgar Valtinas, right? Hide warned me about you. Congratulations on becoming captain.” His English was well-pronounced and had a nice lilt to it taken over from Italian.

“Yes, thank you,” Edgar said slowly, taking the hand offered to him. “You are…”

“Fideo Aldena. The new forward in front of Hide.”

“You sound close to him.” Edgar watched him, wondering if he could weasel a weakness from him.

“You sound like you don't like him.” There was amusement in Fideo’s voice, but he wasn't smiling.

“He's a rival.” Edgar shrugged. “We’re at the world championships. Niceties will only go so far.” Though he supposed he was being a little hypocritical as his interaction with Teres, Mark and Dylan went beyond rivalry. Not that any of them pretended it was anything else, though.

Fideo hummed, tapping his fingers against his bare knee as he thought. “Frankly, I think that's a little depressing.”

“Frankly, there aren't many to share your ideologies,” Edgar said and stood. He stretched, brushed his hair behind his ear and glanced back at Fideo before he left. “You'd do better to remember that.”

Edgar wandered back to the English camp, wondering over the validity of his own words. He knew they were harsh, especially toward someone who hadn't met the world yet, but it wasn't as if everyone else didn't say the same. He had been warned way back when by Teres, and Mark and Dylan had said something similar after they had exchanged numbers last year.

Rivalry ran deep on the grand stage, but Edgar wondered how long they'd keep up that pretence. One day, something would break.

***

_Mamoru_

And it did break. Shattered into glimmering little pieces at the feet of the overly enthused Mamoru Endou from Japan the very next year.

Frankly, Edgar thought as he found his seat next to Teres and Mark for the finals, with Dylan tossing a pretzel over Mark’s head toward him as well as some comment on nacho cheese, he found he was quite happy it finally had.

As Fideo turned around from where he sat next to Hide to give him that same keen stare from a year ago, this time accompanied by a smile, Edgar for the first time in his life meant it when he cheered for a goal scored by a team he had lost to.

**Author's Note:**

> I had to remember how to write all their names because ao3 didn't know them.
> 
> Comments appreciated :D


End file.
